Alright
by specterspecial
Summary: A post-9x10 story.


**author's notes:** this fic is 100% the product of my anxieties. sorry if it's trash—i definitely think it's down there in terms of quality lol.

as per usual—constructive criticism is welcomed and encouraged. if you liked the fic please leave a review, as it motivates me to write. i swear i'm also working on my other stories, i just need to take some time for myself and write what i want to write. i haven't forgotten tteotw or dd!

* * *

_Inhale. Exhale._ Her hands are shaking. It's her first time having to tell someone about an event. She looks at the patient's form and dials each number slowly, with pregnant pauses in between each push of a button. She hears the loud droning of the phone, practically begging her to pick up her pace, but she doesn't want to mess this up. She can't mess this up; it's important. Putting the receiver next to her ear, she listens to the dial tone and the phone's rings. The contact doesn't pick up. Instead, she hears his voicemail indicator.

"It's Harvey Specter. I'm not able to pick up right now, but if it's urgent, leave a voice message and I'll get back to you."

The phone beeps. She has to speak. A shaky sigh escapes her lips. She can do this. _Just breathe._

"Hello Mr. Specter, I'm Olivia, a nurse at Mass General—I mean, Massachusetts General Hospital. You were listed as an emergency contact for Marcus Specter—sorry, there's… I should've said the reason first: there's been an accident. Please call back when you have the chance. Thank you."

She hangs up the phone. Her hands can't stop trembling.

* * *

Life is different, but it's good.

Harvey moves into the offices of Zane Ross—there's no Specter, which is both a disappointment and a relief. He works fewer hours compared to the couple and his under-the-table techniques go relatively unnoticed because no one really knows his face—only his name. Unlike Mike, who worked with a clean slate, the story of the infamous New York City closer was a household name for any and every lawyer across the continental United States. It was a good thing his name wasn't on the door—the firm didn't need that type of attention.

Donna, on the other hand, didn't have it so easy. She struggled to get into the groove of things—pieces not lining up. She didn't want to come to Zane Ross, as much as it pained her to think that. She was ready to move on from law. When looking over her files in their new condominium, Donna stumbles on the project that she had with Benjamin. It leads her to start up a small business—a marketing firm—five floors below Zane Ross. Harvey finds that he spends most of his time in her office, advising her clients for free just because he's always hanging around in her workspace. Her place operates smoothly—she's a natural at advertising. Even if her product, The Donna, couldn't get off its feet because the men in the city didn't take her seriously, she could skyrocket others' products here in Seattle. The Emerald City respected her like she deserved to be respected. Within the first few months of them being in Seattle, she already had forty clients.

Sometimes, on a particularly busy day, Mike is forced to reel Harvey back in by coming down to the fifteenth floor. He makes a little fuss and pouts like a puppy—funny to think this was once Mike—and then they go back to work. Harvey loves his job and Mike, so they never really had an issue with it. The two knew that Harvey would come back to work day after day, even if Donna decided to move buildings. (Although, Mike would probably have to limit the number of times Harvey could leave the building then.) If there's anything Mike learned from working with the man for seven years, it was that you let Harvey do his thing. He would return everything you needed—and more—as long as you didn't pull his leash too tight.

Life was different, but it was good.

* * *

Even after Donna became the COO of their New York City firm, she still screened Harvey's calls when their shared secretary took a day off. Luckily, those days off usually aligned with days that the brunet received bad news. She was good at delivering bad news—it was a great, but unfortunate trait to have. Now, it's different. No one screens Harvey's calls. Well, actually—someone does. He has a secretary, her name is Veronica. She cries a lot when a client's story touches her—they usually do—but she never gets personal calls like Donna used to. When work was his life in the past, he told all of his friends and family to call his work line. Now, they actually call his cellphone. Work isn't the definition of his life now, it's Donna and their future together. He has better priorities.

So, when he gets the phone call at dinner with Donna—at a gastrobar (a strange concept to him)—he ignores it. The two of them acknowledge the phone call, but "it's whatever," as everyone seems to say in Seattle. They're all so laid back here. Nothing like the fast-paced, uptight people of New York City.

Later, he'll grumble about the voicemail—he sees that the caller ID is from Massachusetts. It's not Marcus or Katie's number, so whatever it is, it isn't important. It's probably advertising, so he's tempted to ignore it, but what telemarketer leaves a voicemail? He plays the message three hours after receiving it, laying in bed next to Donna who is reading a series of poems by Rupi Kaur. Her new hire, Juliana, recommended it.

At first, he rolls his eyes at the woman's nervousness. Can't she just get on with what she's saying? However, with every hesitation, the gravity of the situation weighs down on him. Each word seems to tack on another weight, and he barely hears the last part of the message as he gets up to look for his overnight bag.

"Harvey?" Donna asks, putting the bookmark in her book as she slips out from underneath the covers. She watches him pace across the room looking for things—cursing and running his hands through his hair. He doesn't hear her. His heart is beating in his chest so loudly that it deafens him.

"Harvey," she says louder, cutting him off. She stands in front of him. His face is frenzied and panicked."What's wrong?'

He looks like he's about to throw up. His lips part to speak, but he's choked up with anxiety.

"Marcus," he finally manages to articulate. "He's been in an accident."

Donna's face contorts into shock. Their lives have been filled with whirlwinds of change, and this is the last thing that Harvey needed to hear. All she can do is wrap her arms around him and hear his heart pound inside his chest. He is afraid, and she is unable to fix this. So instead, she helps in the only way she knows how: being by his side.

"Let me pack," she murmurs softly, rubbing his cheek before pecking him on the lips. "Get more information about what happened, call a cab to the airport, and I'll buy the tickets when we get there."

"We?" Harvey asks, confused.

"You're not dealing with this alone," she nods, as she pushes him out into the living room to do his tasks.

The airplane ride is stress-inducing. Donna gives Harvey a few pills so he can sleep, but while he rests, Donna nurses an airplane drink—it definitely tastes worse up in the sky—and looks out the window at the endless, dark night sky.

These past few months had been rough for her and Harvey—probably more her than him because she felt isolated from the world—alone in Seattle. Regardless, they got through it. Donna opened her firm. Harvey overcame his mother's death. Sort of. Donna noticed there would be moments where she would catch him looking at her paintings on the wall and whispering apologies that he shouldn't feel obligated to make.

Where did they go wrong that he had to suffer with these heartaches? A part of her wishes that the hardship would come to her—so she could, for once, bear the burden of it all, but she curses internally at herself. That's a selfish and cruel thought. Donna thinks that, just because Marcus was in an accident, it doesn't mean that he's dead. _He's okay_, she tells herself, but she's not fully convinced.

* * *

They bolt to the hospital after touching down in Massachusetts. They carry their overnight bags up the elevator and sit in the ER waiting room, hand in hand. Harvey's leg taps incessantly, and Donna's eyes trace every part of the sitting area. Only the ringing phone and the faint beeps of EKGs fill the room—what is there to say?

Finally, after an hour and a half of waiting, a woman in scrubs comes out of the emergency room. She's holding a clipboard, and she tiredly reads aloud, "the family of Marcus Specter." Harvey and Donna rise and go to her.

The woman nods, and says, "I'm Doctor Rocha. I take it you're Harvey, Marcus' brother?" She looks at the brunet who seems withered. He leans forward at the mention of his name—he just wants to know what's going on.

"Yes," Donna answers for him, "Doctor, could you please tell us what's going on?"

Harvey's grip on her hand tightens for a moment. A silent gesture to thank her.

"Marcus is fine," the doctor says. Harvey nearly crumbles into Donna's arms. Instead, he smiles and nods, relieved. There's still no color in his flesh—shaken from the events, but it's better than hearing Marcus is gone. "He went through an operation—he fell down a small height and broke his arm. Based on his blood alcohol content, he was most likely under the influence. A bystander found him and took him to the hospital."

The couple lets out a collective sigh of relief as they thank the doctor, and she turns to go back into the emergency room to continue performing her duties. She suggested that they visit tomorrow morning, as Marcus was asleep. Although she could see it in his face—how desperately Harvey needed to see Marcus, to make sure it was true that he was alive—Donna makes him go with her to get a hotel. It's better for him to see Marcus when he's awake.

They sit in the hotel bar. Harvey nurses a scotch, and Donna merely opts for water. She's taking care of him tonight.

Despite his earlier feelings of comfort, Harvey seems shaken. As if his brother isn't alright, and they had heard worse news. She places a gentle hand on his shoulder and squeezes affectionately.

"What's wrong?"

"What if he wasn't alright, Donna?"

He places his glass down and looks at his wife, eyes sad and afraid.

"I lost everyone else."

His words hit her intensely, and she just wants to wrap her arms around him and protect him. The redhead takes his hand and places it to her lip before setting it down in her lap.

"Their deaths aren't your fault, Harvey," she says, her voice low. "And you didn't lose him, Harvey. He's okay. Just a broken arm. It'll heal in no time."

The brunet shakes his head. "What if he wasn't fine? I ignored the phone call, Donna."

"You aren't supposed to know everything, baby. How were you supposed to know what that phone call was about?"

"I don't know," he murmurs, his voice shaking, "but I should've been there."

Donna disagrees. She stands up out of her barstool and wraps her arms around her husband, placing her chin on his shoulder. "You can't help things you can't control, Harvey. You came after you heard there was an accident, didn't you? That's what matters. You're here now."

He embraces her tightly, taking in a deep breath— taking her in, trying to expel his anxieties. "You're right," he murmurs, "Thank you."

* * *

Marcus is discharged from the hospital after two days. Donna had to return to work after staying the weekend in Boston with Harvey, but he managed to get the rest of the week off. He helped his brother with little things—he broke his dominant arm, so it was inevitable he'd need some assistance. Spending time with Marcus allowed him to alleviate some of the guilt he had felt, but it was unsurprisingly still present as he sits in a hole-in-the-wall bar with his brother on his last night in town.

His sibling was no mind reader, but Harvey was a fairly easy person to understand emotionally. It didn't require much of an emotional IQ to get Harvey's expressions. Even if he didn't outwardly express himself, people could generally tell what the brunet was thinking.

"Are you still blaming yourself?" Marcus rolls his eyes, as he drinks his beer. Harvey is drinking a beer too, he's not in the mood for his usual. "You know it's not your fault, right? I was drunk and fell off a wall I was balancing on. It was Tim's birthday, and the guys and I went out."

Harvey frowns. "Still, I should've answered the phone when the nurse called."

"Seriously?" his brother snorts, "Stop beating yourself up, Harv. I know it's been rough with...with mom gone and only me left, it's hard. When you moved to Seattle, I was nervous, y'know."

"Really?" the lawyer raises an eyebrow.

"Yeah, of course," Marcus chuckles. "I thought you were leaving again. Missed you all those years. It's good having you back. But seriously, it's not your fault. Those feelings of anger...it was natural to feel that way. What she made you do—that wasn't okay. You moved on from it. In the end, she was happy that you spoke to her again. She was super proud of you. Every moment you spent with her was perfect."

The older male nods silently, spinning the beer in his hand. A habit from drinking so much scotch.

"We can't live life holding onto the past," Marcus says, somewhat philosophically. "Especially now. You have Donna and a whole firm where you can change the world, Harvey. It's time to move on."

They soon call it a night, and Marcus leaves Harvey with: "We're going to be okay." They hug, Marcus swears, before he gets into his taxi, there are tears in Harvey's eyes.

They're going to be alright.


End file.
